by Tim Ellis
‘Good.’
They swapped telephone numbers.
‘I suggest you get back to school, or you’ll have to explain to your dad why you were absent.’
‘Yeah.’
Kowalski shook Harry’s hand. ‘As soon as I find out anything, I’ll give you a call.’
‘Leave a message if I don’t pick up. If I’m in class I can’t use my phone.’
‘That’s understandable.’
Harry left.
Surely there was a simpler explanation than Harry’s dad killed his mum and then disposed of the body. Had Paige Nicole Belmont run away with another man? Or a woman? It certainly seemed the most likely explanation. Of course, as he very well knew, murder did occur for the flimsiest of reasons.
***
‘That was the bee’s knees yesterday, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said as he sat down next to her in the lecture theatre. ‘Dixie asked me to pass on her thanks as well . . . Although we’re not talking at the moment.’
‘You mean she’s not talking to you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘And that’s not all she’s not doing either, Mrs K,’ Joe said, sitting down on the other side of her.
‘You only have yourself to blame, Shakin’,’ Jerry said. ‘Mary Richards is way out of your league. And trying to romance her into bed when you’d brought Dixie with you . . . No, I’m sorry, Shakin’, that was unconscionable. Don’t expect any sympathy from me.’
‘I know – I’m a cad. Do they still have cads these days?’
‘If they do, you’re definitely at the top of the list.’
‘Well, me and Nurse Arwen had a wonderful time, Mrs K. Your mum’s the best cook there’s ever been, and I told her so yesterday as well. She should get herself a TV programme. Never mind Ollie James and his five-a-day. It’d be Mrs K’s mum does Sunday lunch with all the trimmings and for after – apple pie and custard.’
‘That’s a long name for a TV programme, Joe,’ Shakin’ said.
‘I don’t care. I’d watch it, and tell her so from me, Mrs K.’
‘I will. Very kind, Joe.’
‘So, what are we falling asleep to today?’ Shakin’ said.
Jerry elbowed him. ‘There’ll be no falling asleep, Richard Stevens. Professor Michael Lyman is handing out unsolved murder cases to the rich and poor alike.’
Joe laughed and said, ‘And we have to solve them, Shakin’.’
‘Is that all? And I thought it was going to be something difficult.’
‘We have to write a paper discussing the legal issues, problems, implications and citing relevant case law should the murderer be caught and prosecuted today,’ Jerry said. ‘And when I say “we”, I mean “you”. You two can do all the work – I’ll supervise.’
Shakin’s face crinkled up. ‘Work, Mrs K. You know I’m allergic to that particular concept – it brings me out in a rash.’
‘Terrible rash,’ Joe said, nodding.
‘I’m sure Nurse Arwen and her liberal application of soothing cream can sort that out for you.’
Joe’s eyes opened wide. ‘Nurse Arwen’s soothing cream is for me, Mrs K. Shakin’ can get his own soothing cream nurse.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Professor Lyman said. ‘If that’s not too much of an insult.’
There was a smattering of laughter.
Lyman was a small beady-eyed man who wore oversized suits, combed his hair over his bald head from above one ear to the other and liked to laugh at his own jokes.
‘Not to you ragged urchins, but to proper ladies and gentlemen.’ He laughed like a tree frog.
Some of the ragged urchins laughed at the Professor’s attempt at laughter.
‘Anyway – unsolved murder cases! That’s why we’re all here today. And you’ll be pleased to know that you’ll be doing all the work while I sit in the staff room and catch up with my sleep.’ He shared more laughter with them.
‘The guy’s an idiot,’ Shakin’ said.
Jerry stared at him. ‘He’s an idiot who has a law degree and a professorship at a prestigious university – neither of which you have, Richard Stevens.’
‘I can see I’m in the doghouse, Mrs K. Maybe I should keep my mouth closed for the foreseeable?’
‘A good idea, Richard.’
Professor Lyman walked up and down the steps in the aisles handing out unsolved murder cases like confetti . . . ‘Mrs Kowalski! You’re not still mollycoddling Stevens and Larkin, are you?’
‘They’re good boys really.’
‘The only reason they’re still on the programme is because of you. If you drop out for any reason, they’d both be put against a wall and shot for the greater good.’ He glared at Shakin’ and Joe. ‘I hope you realise what a diamond Mrs Kowalski is?’
‘You bet, Prof’,’ Joe said.
‘I’m keeping my eye on you two. If I find that you’re taking advantage of Mrs Kowalski . . . Well, you’ll both be doing a degree in history. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal, Prof’,’ Shakin’ said.
Lyman passed Jerry the case folder. ‘Let those two do the work, Mrs Kowalski – you supervise.’
‘I’ve already told them that’s the way it’s going to be.’
‘Good. They’ll have their work cut out with that one, that’s for sure.’
The Professor wandered off to hand out the remainder of the cases.
‘Do you believe that?’ Joe said.
‘Yes, I do, Joe,’ Jerry said. ‘What Professor Lyman says is true – I’m carrying you both. You need to forget about women and drinking, and knuckle down to some hard work.’
‘I’m flabbergasted, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said.
‘Yeah,’ Joe agreed. ‘Flabbergasted is definitely the word . . . What does it mean, Shakin’?’
‘This is your chance to show everyone what you’re made of,’ Jerry said. ‘Do a good job with this and all will be forgiven. Are you game, boys?’
‘We’re game, Mrs K,’ Joe said ‘Aren’t we game, Shakin’.’
‘It goes against a long-held family tradition, but I suppose so. What have we got then?’
Jerry opened up the file. ‘It says here that a woman’s body was discovered on Cambridge Street in Pimlico on August 15, 1997. When they ran the biological material from the scrapings taken from under the fingernails through the DNA database they found a profile match . . .’
‘See,’ Joe said. ‘I told you it would be easy, Shakin’ – case solved. Let’s go back to the halls of residence and catch up with our sleep.’
They both laughed.
Jerry wondered if she was pushing string uphill with the pair of them. ‘Get your notebooks out, boys.’
‘Notebooks!’ Joe said. ‘Have you got one of those, Shakin’?’
‘Maybe.’ He rummaged in his rucksack and pulled out a book of A4 lined paper. ‘What about this?’
Joe grinned. ‘I think you could be onto something with that.’
Shakin’ split the notebook in half and passed one half to Joe.
‘So, you’ve written down Cambridge Street in Pimlico?’ Jerry said.
Both of them nodded.
‘The woman’s name was Emily Hobson, she was a Nurse at Great Ormond Street Hospital and lived at the Nurses’ Home in St George’s Square, which isn’t far from where she was found in Cambridge Street, or from Pimlico tube station.’
‘Sounds to me like we’ll have to go into the Nurses’ Home and question all those pretty nurses,’ Shakin’ said. ‘You can leave that job to me. I know I said that I’m a bit workshy, but for you Mrs K I’m willing to get my hands dirty.’
‘Very kind of you to offer, Shakin’, but if anyone does have to go into the Nurses’ Home – it’ll be me, on my own, without any male company.’
‘I could go, Mrs K,’ Joe said. ‘Where nurses are concerned, I think I’m a bit of an expert now.’
Shakin’ pulled a face. ‘How does lying on your back getting soothing cream slathered all over your affected part by Nurse Ar
wen make you an expert on nurses?’
Jerry interrupted. ‘Neither of you will be going anywhere near that Nurses’ Home – is that clear?’
They both nodded.
‘Shall we continue?’
‘Please do, Mrs K,’ Shakin’ said.
‘She was found at three in the morning by a Latvian bar-worker called Elina Palameika who was on her way home. She shared a flat with three other Latvian women at 23 Turpentine Lane, which is next to the railway lines.’
‘Where did she work?’ Joe asked.
‘The Jugged Hare on Vauxhall Bridge Road.’
‘What about Emily Hobson – where had she been?’ Shakin’ said.
‘As far as anyone knew she hadn’t been anywhere. Apparently, nurses were required to sign out of the home, but Emily hadn’t. So she was meant to be in her room in the Nurses’ Home, but she wasn’t. She had a half-past seven start the following morning. The last person who saw her at quarter-past ten that night – Greta Ross – said she was making hot chocolate in the kitchen dressed in her pyjamas ready for bed.’
Joe’s forehead wrinkled up. ‘What did she have on when the Latvian woman found her?’
Jerry checked the notes. ‘A skimpy red dress, red panties, red shoes and a red bag – she was dressed for clubbing.’
‘She must have changed her mind about going to bed.’
‘Or, somebody called her up and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse,’ Shakin’ suggested. ‘Was she . . . you know?’
‘Yes – she’d been badly beaten, raped and then strangled. No semen though, only evidence of condom lubricant.’
‘And no condom?’
‘No.’
She showed them an eight-by-four colour photograph of the corpse.
‘That’s a man’s handiwork,’ Shakin’ said, pulling a face. ‘A woman wouldn’t have done that. And if she was raped, the killer could only have been a man.’
Jerry nodded her head slowly. ‘I agree with you.’
‘Can we go back, Mrs K?’
‘Back to where, Joe?’
‘The DNA match. I mean, if they found a match, then surely the case is solved – right?’
‘Wrong.’
‘How’s that?’
‘The DNA matched a woman called Helen Veldkamp.’
‘There we are then – case solved.’
‘No. Helen Veldkamp was murdered herself three weeks prior to Emily Hobson being murdered.’
Joe knuckled his eyes. ‘I think I’m getting a headache. Maybe going back to the Halls of Residence to lie down was a good idea, after all.’
‘How can that be, Mrs K?’ Shakin’ said. ‘What’s the connection between the two women?’
‘That’s what we need to find out, Shakin’. The police couldn’t find any connection between the two women at all. There must be a connection, and I think once we find it, then we’ll discover who killed both women.’
‘How did Helen Veldkamp’s DNA get under Emily Hobson’s fingernails when Helen Veldkamp had been dead for three weeks?’ Joe said, shaking his head.
‘Emily Hobson was a nurse. She must have been involved in handling Veldkamp’s body in some way?’ Shakin’ offered.
‘No. Emily was working on the male medical ward and had nothing to do with the pathology department, or the handling of dead bodies.’
‘It was the same killer?’ Joe suggested.
‘The police concluded that it wasn’t the same killer. Helen Veldkamp had her throat cut, but she wasn’t raped. There were no similarities between the two murders, which occurred in different parts of London.’
‘Just because that’s what the police concluded,’ Joes said, ‘doesn’t mean that it still couldn’t be the same killer.’
Jerry nodded. ‘That’s very true, Joe.’
‘There must have been two killers – a man and a woman?’ Shakin’ argued.
‘No.’
‘No?’ Joe’s forehead furrowed. ‘You’re not making any sense, Mrs K.’
Shakin’ said, ‘The two women knew each other?’
‘No.’
‘Both murders were in exactly the same place and . . .?’
‘No. Helen Veldkamp was killed on Albert Road in Queen’s Park, which is miles away from Cambridge Street in Pimlico.’
‘The same detectives . . .?’
‘No. Different teams of detectives from different police stations.’
‘The samples got mixed up and contaminated at the forensic laboratory?’
‘No. The nail clippings from the first victim were varnished and had a distinctive leopard skin pattern, which exactly matched what was contained in the evidence bag. Also, the records indicated that neither of the samples had ever been out of the exhibit store at the same time, so there was no way they could have accidentally been mixed up.’
‘It would be helpful if you could say “yes” just once, Mrs K,’ Joe said, scratching his head.
‘No. So, any other suggestions, boys?’
Shakin’ shook his head. ‘I think I have a headache as well.’
‘How did the DNA from Helen Veldkamp get under Emily Hobson’s fingernails then, Mrs K?’ Joe asked.
‘No idea. It’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, but perhaps there’s a key – we just have to find it.’
‘And this is the work you mentioned earlier?’
‘It continues to surprise me how the workshy can always spot work from a long way away.’
‘Years of practice, Mrs K. A skill passed down from generation to generation. My ancestors would be turning in their graves if they thought that I was even contemplating the idea of work.’
‘I guess there’ll be a lot of uncomfortable corpses over the coming days then, Shakin’.’
‘You’re sure there’s no other work-free options available?’
‘I’m sure.’
Chapter Three
The body had been found in the woods off Meadgate Road that snaked its way through the reservoirs, lakes and rivers towards Dodd’s Weir. After navigating through the Broxbourne traffic they were now travelling east along Nazeing New Road.
‘Why couldn’t I do it, Sir?’
‘Don’t beat yourself up about it, Richards. There was a lot of pressure to get it right . . . And DI Blake simply added to that pressure.’
‘But there was no right or wrong choice.’
‘Tell that to DI Blake. Would you have preferred the family annihilation?’
‘Noooo! Did you hear? All three children were killed. Who could do something like that? I hate child cases.’
‘There you are then. DI Blake made the wrong choice and she knows it.’
‘I thought you said there was no right or wrong choice.’
‘I’ll re-phrase: She chose the least favourable of the two alternatives available. And what’s worse is that she did it in front of everybody. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.’
‘But when it came to make that choice I was the one who bottled it.’
‘You’re young. You’ll learn from that experience and make the choice next time.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Almost?’
‘Well, fate has a fickle finger.’
‘I’ve heard people say that. And we’ve left that incident room unguarded. I think DI Blake will steal it back, you know.’
‘I certainly hope so.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘We didn’t choose the better of the two rooms, did we?’
‘I was wondering about that, but I didn’t like to say anything, because I thought you must know something I didn’t.’
‘That’s exactly what DS Gilbert will think when he steals it from us.’
She laughed. ‘You’re even worse than she is. So, we’ll end up with the other incident room, which really is the better of the two?’
‘Exactly. You have to fight
fire with fire.’
Richards followed the directions of the uniformed officer waving them through the swelling group of press, curious onlookers and the crime scene tape. She parked the Qashqai next to the white forensic truck.
‘Wellies?’ she said as they climbed out of the SUV.
‘Almost definitely.’
‘Almost?’
‘Not knowing how far into the woods the body is located, there’s always a slim chance that we might not need them.’
‘I don’t want to get my shoes dirty.’
‘There we are then – wellies it is.’
Forensics had erected their yellow tent approximately three hundred yards into the woods. White-suited science officers were already fanning out like synchronised swimmers in a search pattern from there.
Parish and Richards stayed on the plastic linoleum path that had been rolled out like the yellow brick road before them. The linoleum wasn’t yellow though – it was grey, and neither did it lead to the City of Emeralds.
After wriggling into the forensic suits, overboots, gloves and masks, and being recorded on the visitor’s log, they stepped inside the tent. A forensic photographer was taking still life pictures of the crime scene, and a video camera had been erected on a tripod to record the events in real time.
‘Try not to become a man of success Toadstone, but rather try to become a man of value.’
‘Albert Einstein was my childhood hero,’ Toadstone said. ‘It was because of him that I became a scientist.’
‘Now, correct me if I stray too far away from the truth, but don’t scientists produce results?’
‘I’m having a run of bad luck, Sir.’
‘Luck! Is that now part of your scientific arsenal?’
‘Stop picking on Paul, Sir,’ Richards said. ‘You know he does his best.’
‘Do you do your best, Toadstone?’
‘Always.’
‘Because I’m thinking that we have different ideas about what your best actually is. You see, I think of your best as you finding some forensic evidence that provides Richards and me with a clue, a hint, a pointer towards something more substantial than nothing. What’s your idea of your best, Toadstone?’
‘I don’t think we’re that far apart in our thinking, Sir.’